Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Oh my God. I've just realized. And I probably shouldn't even think about it, but I do. This is what happens when you're too far, too deep, into the universe of fandom. Might be, yeah. Excuses, excuses. But, see: Captain Jack Sparrow keeps (well, that is, kept) Davy Jones's heart in a jar. Of dirt. Which was stolen by an evil Lord, Cutler Beckett. Whereas Captain Jack Harkness still keeps The Doctors hand - in a jar. Of water. Which has now been stolen by an evil Time Lord, The Master. Both played by prominent British actors; one is Tom Hollander, who starred in "London", a British drama series which also featured both the two others; Derek Jacobi (the "first", new Master) and John Simm (the "second"). And by the way - yes! - Hollander's the one who starred opposite Keira Knightley in "Pride and Prejudice", where he proposed and was rejected! Thus, all the great and natural chemisty (or disapproval...), I believe! This is past funny, this is downright scary. And as if it's not quite enough, it follows in the wake of the whole Turner/Tyler + Swann/Smith-thing. Interestingly; both are left on a beach, reunited as friends - and/or lovers. Speculators decide. I would prefer having Rose wait for The Doctor on a glittering beach in the sunset, though. Puppy eyes, teary, beautifully dress-clad, defender of parallell earth. Always remembering, never giving up hope. Where and what were we without imagination. Now, that IS a wonderful idea for continuation. Maybe it takes 10 years for the breach to open again - by accident? No ripping apart of galaxies and burning up suns, just plain luck? And then, The Doc could arrive with the TARDIS, flying across the ocean, with the doors wide open and she could jump straight in, into his arms, happy-soppy-well deserved-hug (and snog!) and then, er, sail away with him. Leave Mickey behind and alone, who cares. Hoho. And Elizabeth could take off with Jack, next time he's ashore, being sick and bored of hanging around waiting for Will. Ask their son (silly deleted scenes!) to stay and welcome daddy when he eventually gets back and is relieved of the curse. Whilst she, on the other hand, will naturally be sailing some distant pacific with her (truly) beloved (real) Pirate. Revised Happy Endings. Great for us shippers. Furthermore, as for the mysterious trivia, we've of course got the - incidentically or not - two Sparrows ("Blink", anyone?), the dying fathers who are (tentatively) revived, and the whole "My Lady Ship"-obsession. Ships are female, end of story. And they apparently mean a lot to their captains. I dare say, I think "Pirates of the Caribbean" must mean a lot to Russel T Davies as well. Guess he simply "loves his Captains"; which sounds rather familiar. But come on, did anyone NOT think of Barbossa's skeleton-guys mixed with Jones's fishcrew when they saw The Futurekind? Plus, Lazarus was a bit of a crab, wasn't he? Looked like one, anyhow. Reminded me of the fish-guy with the T-shaped head. We've got swordfighting (Tennant would take down Orlando anytime!) and head-dropping (Cassandra, ugh!) and a guiding compass/watch. If not very obvious, I would claim that I definately saw a clear resemblance there. And, finally, I suppose both the Captain Jack's are slightly...flexible. About a lot of things. Got a thing for another man's girl too. Maybe that's how we could get rid of Martha - she could run off with Capt. Jack? Either one of them would suit me fine, as long as she doesn't stick with Le Doc! ;) I may hope! And - after all, I do love both concepts and the whole linking up is indeed very entertaining. More connections to come - when I come to think of them!
Thursday, June 21, 2007
"stille opp/oppstilt - forholdslikninger"
Av Scaramouche, po(t)eten, om delvis symbiotisk samliv og tilhørende prøvelser i støtteerklæringer. Så uhorvelig enkelt å være utilstrekkelig eller overdrevent deltagende. Hårfin balansegang.
i hardt vær
(og som et onde, tidvis,
de tar imot
hvert loss og
for frenders skyld
Av Scaramouche, po(t)eten, som har et meget anstrengt forhold til trange heisrom. God mosjon i å gå trapper, skal jeg si dere.
jeg satt fast i en heis
en glattcelle av gulv og fire dører
ville ikke åpne seg
og knappene var sammenklistret i
et uforklarlig lim
mens rester av graffitti skrek imot meg
mikrofoner ropte at jeg måtte reise opp
og krabbe ut
nei, aldri synke ned og gå (ut) fri
"utbrent og utvannet"
Av Scaramouche, the po(t)et; et slags forsøk på å bevise for meg selv at jeg kan skrive dikt om (stort sett) det meste. Til og med engangsgriller. Den lå der, ensom og forlatt og forsøplende, nedenfor Gamlehaugen - og så mer miserabel ut enn House på en god dag. Jeg syntes den fortjente en liten verselinje eller syv.
en utbrent engangsgrill, et hylster; svart mot sølv
av kull; forkrøplet; skall av gjenglemt felleskos,
man glemte hvem sin innsats, hvem som ledet an, og
presenterte sammenkomstinitiativ, hvem det enn var som tok
saken fatt, og rent i hende, men lot et minne stå
og stå dem bi, når stranden inntas neste morgen av helt nye sko,
for å la vite, her var vi, og her var vi kanhende aldri mer
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
I don't often post pure art-sections on this blog, but today I'll make an exception. This is some stuff I did with photoshop this evening, to prove there's more to Scara's hand than just abilities of writing. I can even click a mouse too, and drag images into place. Whoa. I'm not saying I'm THAT good with the program, but I thought it turned out pretty okay myself. Like the mid-section and the fact that the three Doctors look scaringly similar. Suppose that is the thing with fandom; you learn more about yourself and your habits, in addition to developing them. Into perfection. And guess who's got a new desktop? Strictly speaking, it's a banner, but I've learnt from Captain Jack how to be slightly flexible when it comes to such a thing as 'terms'.
Morover, I've produced an icon to go along with it! For all you Doctor-lovers like myself:
Now, second, something I wrote a while ago and had saved but then completely forgotten. That's the inconvenient thing about Blogger's new "save now"-function. I tend to overuse it a bit, then ignore the fact that I've used it at all. Start writing something new instead. Anyways, I might be slightly clever at designing banners, but this is proof that such is not the case with all my spare time activities; here's a (Norwegian) kåseri-thingy about something I'm much less talented at - cooking.
Fra 2. Juni:
Jeg fikk en kraftig påminnelse om mine manglende evner på kjøkkenet i dag, da jeg skulle fikse meg "en rask middag", slik de så fint kaller det i kokebøkene som jeg dog sjelden leser, og klarte å brenne hele den unevnelige greien fast i pannen. Utrivelig, også fordi man da må finne på et alternativ, og med min ikke akkurat storslagne oppfinnsomhet når det gjelder mat (sikkert relatert til de manglende kokkelerings-talentene) ble det jaggu vrient. Endte opp med en posesuppe av disse mer praktiske (tøm innholdet i en kopp og tilsett kun vann, tralala), men jeg er ikke god på øyemål heller og klarte å helle i altfor mye væske og det ble en laber, tynn suppesak. Men mat er mat og er man sulten glir det meste ned. Mens jeg slafset i meg Den Småmislykkede foretok jeg imidlertid en drastisk beslutning om at jeg aldri skal prøve meg på en kokkelærlingsjobb. Skal man satse, bør det være på noe man har bittelitt glede av. Og istedenfor å la denne avklaringen virke nedslående på humøret, og selvbildet, lot jeg meg inspirere! Planlegger å skissere ned en (om enn ufullstendig) gjennomgang av yrker Scaramouche HELLER bør vurdere - dvs faktisk vurderer - å satse på når hun blir stor. Større. Gamlere. En eller annen gang i fremtiden, mao. Trenger ikke kunne alt her i verden. Sålenge jeg har ordene har jeg det helt fint. Mer enn nok å rute med, det.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I love a Doctor who won't wear his labcoat because he says "it itches!", who "don't like anyone", who toys around with a yoyo while patients are dying, wears trainers with blazers and neckties with jeans, whose sentimentality is non-existent, who hardly ever smiles, but when he does is even more adorable, who is passionate only about what interests him at times when it probably doesn't interest anybody else, who makes himself inaccessible when desperately needed, who watches pathetic soaps on TV, and sometimes screws up, yet allowing no-one to meddle with his pride, whose confidence is rarely shaken - and who never stops shining, although impregnable as rocks; who listens to understand, not just to be polite; who is brute, rude, and brilliant and not afraid to say so; who is sarcastically clever; who is spectacularly superficial, yet always digs deeper; who walks with a cane, without it holding him back; who doesn't let anyone come close, literally shakes people off, but almost always keeps his cool and remains in control, when everyone else would be fainting; who breaks off, never down; reluctant but rendering; who doesn't appear to let anything get to him, but still; whose wide, blue-eyed gaze never lies; who is soft, almost tender, then sad 'cause it happened, then closed 'cause it won't ever happen again; who watches the rain, melancholy, then hard-faced; who speaks when he mustn't and jokes when he shouldn't and says nothing when all it would take is one word; whose pose is characteristic, but never a cliché, who's style is legendaric but never a let-off; who plays, while he ponders, and dreams while he doctors. Gregory House. Who'd have thought. That's my man. I've fallen in love with a Doctor again.
Wish I could say the following was inspired strictly by the above-mentioned, and it surely could be, it surely looks like something reminiscent of his maneouvers, but it wasn't, not solely, it was a mix - bit of him, bit of this, bit of that, bit of Leonard Cohen (as usual) and just a bit of...me. My head. Is killing me. It's this thingy I started working on which ended up completely different (often do) and I have no idea how it may continue. For now:
"must be read/out loud" - I was wondering.
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, barely forgotten (how to).
like; who do we hail
when there's nobody left
for torture and punish
or sentence to love
and where do we sail
when the oceans have dried
left waters of salt,
only, running down skins
in streams and in drops
and stinging as bloods
we may swim through the surface
they'll engulf us as floods
the soldiers up front
form the lines to the east
the west soon uncovered
who knows, all can't be pleased
the backbenchers, quiet,
are rows never heard
they dance without movements
feels free as a bird
the fronting material
shiny white teeth, work
may the drool make them drivel
while watching our feet, hurt
yet where do we look
when the turning once stops
and where do we peak
when there are no more tops
Plus, it got me thinking. About things. Thingies that I don't wanna share with the world. Much like Gregory House. His methods, brushing off, barring out. And his weaker points. Such I want to keep quieted down and hidden well away from nosey parkers. Peekers. Peekey-sneakey. Professional voyeurs, as sinister as The Sun's reporters. I just don't feel like it. Somehow, sometimes, there's little point. Or even less. Sometimes, you simply want to watch the cars drive by and imagine you could go with them. Away. Gone with the wind, and a smile; a last one. Massive conclusions. To end; before the first day in the rest of your life. Saying it was completed so it could be incomplete once again. Fresh. I thought everything was going to be different. One great, big bowl of change. And it was. I was wrong. Put on my specs and view the world and find the faintest odds.
"Bart, you're no longer in sunday school! Don't swear!", The Simpsons. Ubetalelig.
"Pirates of the Caribbean" er en undervurdert eventyractionspesialeffektfilm, som ikke bør tas for å være noe annet enn det den gir seg ut for å være, og den er heldigvis ikke selvhøytidelig, i motsetning til "Spider-Man 3" som bortsett fra enkelte søte sekvenser, slutten og imponerende budsjett (ergo dataanimerte sandstormer...blæh!) var et stykke pompøst oppkok av nummer 1 og nummer 2 med dårligere manus (ubeskrivelig grusomt, faktisk, slo Star Wars ep. 3 ned i støvlene mht banal dialog og det skal godt gjøres!) og meningsløse konflikter; jeg er stor fan av Spidey (nr 1 og 2 var briljante, så det er sagt!) og var tilsvarende skuffet. Men altså, tilbake til Piratene, jeg ELSKER Johnny Depp! Keira Knightley kan dumme seg ut så mye hun vil med patetiske patriot-taler på dekk (det var ille), tulle rundt så mye hun vil med Orlando Bloom (den var da ganske drøy - dvs dristig - den scenen på stranden? I don't mind, but I think others might! Og jeg trodde dette var en familiefilm!! hoho!), produsentene burde vurdert å kutte ned på både det ene og det andre (med unntak av skjørtelengden til nevnte Keira; hørte jeg amerikansk familiefilm? Ikke for å være prippen her, men jeg foretrekker å se Gerry i sånne antrekk! Dessuten har "300" enerett på å være pornofilm in disguise...!), The Kraken burde fått anledning til å kverke noen flere, Bill Nighy og Naomie Harris og Keith Richards (!) burde fått anledning til å snakke mer, ja - savnet generelt litt mer prat og mindre slossing, MEN: Johnny Depp redder dagen, uansett! Hadde han bare fått litt mer spilletid, så, fine kapteinen! Mye morsomheter klarte han å tilføre filmen, i tillegg, og jeg er ikke enig med de som mener at den kun inneholdt "oppbrukte gags", jeg lo hvert femte sekund. Dog, jeg skal innrømme, den scenen der Jonathan Pryce spør sin datter "Elizabeth, are you dead?!" ER kanskje ikke veldig (tilsiktet) morsom - men jeg lo. Jada. Jeg var den eneste i hele salen som lo. Åpenbart ingen andre der som hadde sett "Boondock Saints". Is it dead?! Huffameg. Her er noen andre favoritter:
"Nobody move! I've dropped me brain!", Captain (nøye med det der) Jack Sparrow
"I don't have the face for tentacles.", Captain Jack Sparrow
"Wonder what would happen if we were to drop a cannonball on them...", Ragetti - OG! - "Right this way, Mrs. Fish!", Pintel - (fine duoen!)
"You may kiss! You may kiss! JUST KISS!", Barbossa (mens han vier Liz & Will, hoho)
"I leave you people alone for just a minute and look what happens!", Captain Jack Sparrow
Lord Cutler Beckett: "You're mad!"
Capt. Jack Sparrow: "Well thank goodness for that, 'cause if I wasn't this would probably never work."
Oooog, dernest, over til noe helt annet men meget Britisk. Beviset for at Paris Hilton tar etter Doctor Who: da hun ble fraktet vekk for å bli satt i fengsel, hva var det hun vrælte etter? Noen som hørte godt etter? "Mommy! I want my Mommy!" Man kan ikke bli sørgelig av sånt, man bare ler! Høyt og lenge! And is she her mommy, anyway? *Dån* (Er det ikke moro med intern humor???)
Og apropos humorrelaterte Doctor Who-episoder; jeg vet det var meningen at "Utopia" skulle være en dyster og episk følelsesmessig berg-og-dalbane (sitat RTD) for The Doctor; en reise inn i en ny epoke av umenneskelige prøvelser og grusomme fiender, men da John Simm dukket opp i TARDIS'en og begynte å hoppe rundt, gikk jeg fra melankolsk snufsepufs (Jack is luckily back, Rose-referanser og flashbacks, ikke sunt) til jubel og latterkrampe. Og da han avsluttet med "End of the universe! Have fun! Bye-bye!" knakk jeg fullstendig sammen. Bra at man kan fremdeles kan gjøre det av DW, uten at det innebærer tårer og tenners gnissel. Er vel heller ikke alene om å heie litt på The Master i Simms skikkelse. Mannen er genialt spooky, Doctor-aktig og sjarmerende! Hvem hadde forventet dét... Å, men jeg VISSTE at det ville bli bra når John'ene dukket opp! Fantastisk episode også, for øvrig, sånn rent historiemessig. Og la meg gjenta: Jack is back! Fine, halvtamerikanske, fleksible danser-skotten! :)
Og apropos en apropos, man kan jo ikke unngå å ta med følgende - i et særdeles sårbart og rørende og regelrett uutholdelig nostalgisk minneøyeblikk, fremført av en lengtende Le Doc, dvs David Tennant: "She's gone Jack. Not just living in a parallel world, she's trapped there. The walls have closed..." Også dét uttrykket i ansiktet. For å minnes litt mer; "Rose would know". Bare hun kan komme tilbake snart! Herregud, jeg har ikke godt av den serien. Men flashbacks er flott! Det som ikke er like behagelig er å finne følgende i The Sun - det er sikkert blitt dementert og benektet og latterliggjort for lenge siden, men hvorfor skriver de sånt? Pluss at egentlig er det gammelt nytt, fordi RTD uttalte for lenge siden at han skulle bruke mindre tid på DW og mer på Torchwood. Noe vi alle i grunnen kan prise oss ganske lykkelig for. Way to go, Steven Moffal & Paul Cornell! Men slutt for Doctor Who? NEI. Never give up something essentially great when it's heading towards even greater. I rest my case!
Friday, June 15, 2007
"tar" - historier om det overkjørte
(clue, engelsk: tar = asfalt)
Av Scaramouche, po(t)eten, som altså ikke kjører bil men ynder å sitte på.
man tager hva man haver
og legger asfaltdekke
lag i lag og
side om hver side i
en evig oppdekningsmanøver
grenseløs og grunnfast,
tenke seg at
blir til av blokker;
seig og svartmalt
tjære - over, under,
inntil, mot - som
overlappes i et
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Anyways, when on holiday I take some pleasure in being slightly absent from internet surfing and other normal weekday-habits, a serious change in routines for once, consequently not working and writing that much and allowing myself to be a little less up to date and effetive instead. Wonderful, for the moment. After all, I'm trying to relax my brain too - and as a result, which is why this would concern those of you whom I call readers; I might not update my blog that often. Just like Brian May, for that matter, who hasn't written an entry since early May. Oh well, as long as the projects keeping him from doing so includes the new Queen album and a PhD, we fans can't really complain. I want to sit here and listen to the sounds of summer and feel the heat which doesn't scorn. It burns a bit - my shoulders are pretty red now, making me into something that is strikingly resembling a lobster - but it doesn't bite. I'm at ease, really, I am. And I love it. Can I just say? - I love it!
Friday, June 01, 2007
1. When nicey sci-fi movies choose to include an overly patriotic "twist" which makes them seem rather pathetic - overall. "The Postman", starring my other favourite actor Kevin Costner, was a major let-down in this respect. Slow-motion horseback riding through rivers with smiling children around you and the National Anthem playing in the background - what the heck?! I thought better of you, Kevin, and your directing-talents! I actually preferred "Waterworld" to this, as opposed to everyone else apparently, although I did enjoy the The Beatles-references and the connections to other K.C.-movies like "Dances with Wolves" (which is one of the best films ever made, period!) The cinematography and filming was very good too (there you go, a nod to Kevin, I'll give him that) but the dialogue was horrid at times and the plot was full of, er, holes. The casting could also have been better (Kevin himself set aside, he did a good job apart from the exaggerated patriotism and cliché mess), the final battle was absolute crap (hated it! seriously, my GOD!) and the continuity was basically absent. I thought they had specific people designated to take care of such kind of problems. For instance, how did he get from the coach to the battlefield and how did they end up at the dancing patio?! Two minutes ago they were all situated somewhere completely different! I got...lost! A bit too many Mad Max-influences and some odd 80's/90's science fiction stuff, but I could have coped with the lot of it, had it not been for the stupid, misplaced glorification of the postal services and our fantastic "überhero". And the caps. Ah, and The Postman's helplessness. "Oh right, the love of my life is fighting for her life in the middle of an utterly chaotic crisis, the end of the world is approaching, and what do I do? Gape! Stand still and glare and gape!" Aaargh, the disappointment. But what could one expect, when the new American president was called Richard Starkey?! Gosh.
2. Severe hangovers. So it didn't help that I was drinking beer while watching "The Postman". Could probably have made it easier to bear, for some, but in my case alcohol makes me even more critical and pedantic. And the day after is never very pleasant. I do have a lot of fun while I'm drunk, though; not too sure about everyone else around me, but at least I am laughing. PS: Bear with beer? Beer to bear?! Bear with me??? I didn't even notice that until afterwards! LOL. (Too much Doctor Who AND alcohol.)
3. Warm weather combined with rain and fog. Also referred to as mugginess. Pretty uncomfortable. The clouds are heavy as my head, and hanging about as low, only increasing the headache and making me feel like a sack of potatoes. Without knowing exactly how they would feel of course, in a sack, but I reckon you get the picture. In addition I can't find any consolation in chocolate, since I ate way too much last night and have forbidden myself to consume any at all today. Well, I was eating chocolate today - come to think about it - but I suppose what happens before you go to bed doesn't count. I'll see if I manage to stay disciplined. It's friday and everything. Maybe I can buy a skillingsbolle. How on earth can you translate skillingsbolle to English?! Oh, suppose it's a universal expression - mutually comprehensible. Everybody loves skillingsboller! The worst thing about being away from Bergen; denied access to freshly baked bakery delicacies. Haha. But wait a second, we've always got brownies. I absolutely LOVE brownies. Healthy diet; no shit! But as far as I can see, there's no need for people to abuse drugs when they can obtain such an instant, indescribable pleasure from eating a chocolate cookie-cake-thingy which tastes like heaven and usually costs much less instead! Pluss, no significant side-effects. Comparable to the ones you get from dope, anyway. And you've got to replace the desires with something, right? I'd rather escape into a chocolate-coated ecstacy than a chemically induced trance. Add a great movie - and some Murray Gold (which I am currently listening to) - and I'll be happy again. Self-care. Rather improvised personal insurance. Oh joy!
What I believe. More of it. Like, not everyone should be writing books. Or rather, be allowed to publish their books. Supermodels, TV hosts, silly people (not necessarily a general definition concerning the former and previously mentioned), limelight dreamers, desperately desiring some attention, fallen stars and fading heroines. Oh no. Words are magical and should be employed accordingly. Words are too important to be wasted on scribblings by people to whom the words are merely tools for own profits. Increased credibility. Not any sense of poesy there; not any appropriate respect or appreciation. Humility; all it takes, a bit of humble appreciation. Would make the choices easier, too, less difficult to determine whose intentions are valid and whose are only profit-related. Determine who has a cause and who is a charlatan. Writing books is not supposed to be piece of cake and, sticking with the food metaphors, it certainly isn't just anyone's cup of tea. That is my (presumably) provocative statement. There should be guidelines, or certain demands, for when a writer is a public communicator and not a word wizard only. Maybe not even so, maybe just a user (or abuser) of the basic writing. Like I said, a tool. And it's terribly wrong. Requirements other than celebrity status (or whatever worse) should be put forward, motives other than the cold and money-related should be the basis for editors when they consider. This is not the case, of course, and might never be. We rely on businesses; everything and everyone can and must be sold. Be sellable. We must be able to promote ourselves and have something to offer, that yet others can promote when they stake their lots on us, when they make severe decisions or sacrifices on our behalf, that's what they claim, that's the reasons they give. I repeat. Something to offer. Something that fits with the trends and the tendencies. And - I heard them say I wasn't adaptable enough. Again. That I couldn't adjust myself properly. Work on my shortcomings and the lackings, that was all it'd take. Still, I defied their requests. I said I wasn't willing. Goddamnit, I complicate things, why couldn't I for once please them on their own terms? But - BUT! - I can't! Because I need to feel something, and I need to be content. I need to provoke something in me, and in the ones whom I address. I won't hand in pieces which are constructed according to the doctrines and precepts of these others, with whom I do not agree but to whose system I must (that is: should, but don't) consent. I won't do that to myself. Although, I'm not saying my critics were heavily mistaken - that their opinions shouldn't be heard. Nor am I saying that everyone can write. On the contrary, few people actually can. But the words of those who value words the most, and honestly claim to have a purpose with what they produce, should be taken into account. And furthermore considered; thoroughly. I always come back to this same argument, my most prominent, that differing thoughts and the art of deviating from others, not following in line like blindfolded cattle, but instead opposing the narrow-minded crowds, all this should be highly regarded. And thus, the writing of those who try to convey some sense and meaning through their very writing, not only through what they put down in words, should get the chance to appear in print, on paper. Similarly, their papers should be looked upon as meaningfull. Not better, not perfect, not worse, not imperfect. Just different. And valuable. There are voices out there who aren't heard when they ought to be. There are thoughts out there, significant thoughts, which are kept secret. Hidden from the world. All the while we rejoice in the choir of those who offer nothing; see-through, shimmering, self-centred, ignorant, indifferent letters of black on white and periods to symbolize a finishing. Dots. Numbers. Formulas. Bollocks. Why am I being slightly flippant? Because I am angry. And afraid. Simultaneously. People won't really have to think anymore, they can just agree! And next you know, we've lost. Complete agreement will be our last and most severe failure. Dissent is a nice quality. Yet, I'm not complaining of the existence of non-poetic 'stating the truth'. I'm rather complaining of its solitary existence. Words for meaning's sake only, to be accurate, can prove useful - but I'm complaining because it's all we seem to want. And everything else, everyone who dares bring up new ideas and solutions, are silenced. Undermined. Depreciated. Not given a chance. They're not the ones who write books these days. They're the voices whose message is dead. For which I am sorry. I am awfully sorry. On mine and their behalf. I do hope we are one, for it is their company I behold as the greatest. It is amongst them I yearn to exist, and it is their community of shared, new visions I yearn to take part in. Not as a pompous fool, but as a creator who can live in agreement with herself and not have to blame herself for inadaptability and stubborness. I want to be content! I'm tired of having to emphasize this everytime I encounter someone who is set to respond to my works! It's the same, old story. The followers of the flock come in a flock. They're overwhelming. And, I say once more, they are wrong. Fin.